


Song for Mary Jane

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel smokes. Dean doesn't. The world ends around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song for Mary Jane

  
  
The thing is, Castiel is too stoned most of the time to put forth much of an effort towards good sex.

Okay, so Dean's willing to admit that _any_ sex with Castiel is good sex, because there's nothing quite as satisfying as looking into those huge blue eyes while they're fucking, nothing really compares to Castiel's dick in him, or the warmth and near-virgin tightness of Castiel's body in turn. Not to mention the fact that Cas, all those years ago and for whatever reason, picked a vessel that happened to be quite spectacularly hung. Dean can vaguely remember feeling intimidated, but that's all lost now, in the haze of smoke and sweat and blood.

But, the point is, Castiel doesn't like to do hard work. Partly it's the drugs, and partly it's the sense of weariness that they all feel. Cas just feels it a little deeper, ever since his angel club card got revoked. Dean tries not to be too harsh on him.

So they're laying in Castiel's bed, because Cas is the only one in the entire compound who was determined enough to dismantle a queen-sized bed and then haul the thing, mattress and all, back to base. Dean is normally pretty content with his bedroll, but sometime in the past two weeks Cas has found some new sheets, velvet and soft like a living thing beneath his palms, and Dean isn't above granting himself a little decadence every once in a while.

The air is thick with the smell of weed and opium. The opium is from the night before – the pot from about ten minutes ago, when Castiel lit up a battered-looking roach and started smoking. He was polite enough to offer Dean half and half, but Dean's not about to spend the evening getting high with their resident love guru. He's the leader, and he has to keep himself alert.

The thick smell of the smoke makes him drowsy and hungry and _horny_, and Castiel's blissed-out look isn't helping. His pupils are blown wide, dark pools rimmed with ice, and his hair is sticking straight up on one side, laying flat on the other. He looks ridiculous. He looks _high_. Dean reaches for him anyways, drags the ex-angel down so he can press their bodies together. Castiel manages to hold on to the joint, but he's quick to pinch out the smoldering cherry and deposit it on the nightstand as Dean winds their legs together, rubs his half-hard dick against the groove between Castiel's thigh and groin.

"You should smoke with me," Castiel says, voice deep and gravelly. No longer with power, just with tobacco, and smoke. Dean leans up and kisses him, then rolls over so that Castiel is looking up at him, kind of muddled and kind of interested. If Dean's patient, he can coax a reaction out of Castiel while he's still in the thrall of the pot. If he's patient.

They're already naked, but at this point clothes would just get in the way, so Dean's grateful for that. He sets his palms against Castiel's chest instead, rubbing his thumbs in slow, concentric circles across the pale skin, the wiry scratch of chest hair, the peaks of dusky pink nipples as they harden under Dean's hands. Cas grumbles, low in his throat, and looks up at Dean with adoration in his eyes. There's a stirring of interest against Dean's ass, just a twitch. He's getting there.

He leans down, presses his mouth to the hollow of Castiel's throat so he can suck a mark into the skin, stubble rasping against his lips. He can't remember the last time Cas shaved. It doesn't matter. The blood blooms under his tongue same as it always does, and Castiel raises his hands to settle them against Dean's waist, and that's what counts.

"I still have socks on," Castiel says, and Dean blinks, and then checks, just to make sure (it isn't the first time Cas will have hallucinated wearing clothing when he really wasn't). But, sure enough, there they are, one slightly off-white sock and one bright red sock. Dean wonders which girl left them, and whether Castiel realizes that they probably aren't his. Castiel's dick, though, seems to approve of the dissymmetry, because it's firm where it presses against Dean, and maybe they need to try fucking with some of their clothes on more often, if it shoves Cas out of his drug-induced apathy this fast.

"I can see that," Dean offers, and rises up, planting his knees on either side of Castiel's body. "Come on, sailor, earn your keep."

Castiel coughs, and it's almost laughter. He flings his arm towards the nightstand, knocking over his still-smoking roach in the process, hunting around for the lube they used last night. It's hard to come by, what with most of the supermarkets and drug stores being overrun by Croats, and Dean's always hesitant to waste it, but Castiel pops the top and slathers his fingers with the clear gel until he's _dripping_ with it. Dean should protest, because he doesn't want to spend the next hour washing lube out of himself, but Castiel's fingers nudge, sloppy and uncoordinated, against his hole and he can't really bring himself to do it. Instead he cants his hips, pushes back until Cas groans in sympathy and sinks two fingers in, straightaway, and Dean hisses because Cas doesn't wait, just starts spreading his fingers, uncontrolled, jerky.

"Easy," he mumbles, and Castiel peers up at him with his too-dark eyes, pupils big enough to drown in, and his fingers…slow, a bit.

"You should kiss me," he says, and Dean snorts but leans down to do as he asks, grumbling into Castiel's mouth as another finger wiggles in beside the other two. Fuck, he's gonna be _sliding_ around for the rest of the night, but Castiel's fingertips brush _justrightthere_ and everything but now, and here, and Cas, loses importance.

The fingers slow, slow, stop, and Dean figures that's his cue to take over. Sure enough, Castiel's eyes are unfocused, never mind that his dick is still prodding at Dean's ass, and his lips are curled in an almost-smile. Dean wonders if opium can react with pot and, if so, what the results would be. He suspects he's seeing them right now.

"Cas," he says sharply, and the blue eyes wobble into focus, honing in on Dean's face, then on the movements of his hips and thighs as Dean lifts himself up, holds the base of Castiel's prick and then sinks _downdowndown_. Castiel's mouth gapes in a breathless moan, and Dean laughs.

"Fucking huge," he complains, but it's not with any heat, and once he's muscled past the stretch-ache-pain of taking all of Castiel at once it's better, so much better, and he wonders why they ever stop doing this in the first place.

Castiel lifts his lube-tacky hand, curls it, trembling, around the base of Dean's cock. Squeezes, and Dean grunts his appreciation. He has his stupid socked feet planted against the bed, so Dean lifts up, letting Castiel slide from him, and then down, feeling the muscles in his thighs work and flex. Castiel seems fascinated with them, keeps using his other hand to try and catch the flutter of muscle and sinew and tendon.

"My beautiful Dean," he mumbles. Dean lowers himself down, whatever scathing reply he might have had reduced to a moan and a whimper as the head of Castiel's dick bumps against his prostate. He does it again, a quick bouncing motion aided by a sudden surge of Castiel's hips. The pot fumes are making him dizzy and light-headed.

"I swore to protect you," Castiel whispers. Dean can sense where that's headed, doesn't want Castiel there, wants him _here_, so he leans up and pulls the guy into a kiss that's less a kiss and more an artless mashing of mouths. He tightens all his muscles, feels Cas curl his fingers a little harder around Dean's prick.

"Fuck me," Dean says, and Castiel blinks muddled assent.

The second-hand high makes everything seem liquid and ethereal. Dean remembers sensations and moments, but the whole of the picture is lost in smoke and sweat: Castiel's gaze focused on his dick as he comes across the ex-angel's stomach, the scrape of stubble against his mouth and neck, the arch of Castiel's back as Dean rides him, the flex of his muscles, the slip-slide of too much lube, the sounds outside (the screaming and yelling, his, the Croats'), Castiel coming in him in thick, hot spurts, Castiel pulling away and cradling Dean close while jizz and lube leaked down his thighs and he was so alone, so alone, so alone.

"I'm so tired," Dean says afterward, and Castiel looks at him and looks _past_ him. Dean shivers under the brief flare of _knowing_ in that expression, feeling, for a second, as if Castiel were himself again, ancient and beautiful and inhuman. Then his brow smoothes out, and Castiel presses a dry, lingering kiss to Dean's forehead.

"I know," he says. "But the pot helps."  



End file.
